


where are you looking?

by madanach



Category: A.C.E (Beat Interactive Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Exhaustion, Finger Sucking, Gross Sweaty Practice Room Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manhandling, Power Play, Rutting, dance practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:43:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/pseuds/madanach
Summary: It didn't start like this, of course. At first it was funny. Then, at some point between their third and fourth wind, once the smell of the barbecue had faded into the plastic liner of the trash can and the automatic lock to the bathroom clicked on, it wasn't anymore.





	where are you looking?

**Author's Note:**

> content warning: they are very very tired in this fic, which affects their perception of each other and of the situation to a limited extent. everything is consensual but enter with care! 
> 
> thanks 2 rachel, missp & the extended a.c.e tl for the encouragement, fanxytelevision for the sexy cheerleading, & shookyfan 4 my life

They're supposed to end the stage unwinding like clock gears, Junhee puppetting down to his knees, Sehyoon hanging his head.

So how did they get here? Junhee can feel every tremble of Sehyoon's body underneath his hands. Or is it his own? Someone's shaking, that's for sure.

Isn't the choreographer coming? Don't they have boxes of albums to sign? Aren't the others on the couch eating and laughing, catching the last burst of energy at the tail end of their day? But that was hours ago. It's so late. The thin rectangle of the basement window is black; the hallway lights have clicked off. The only sound in the building is their soles against laminate and a recording of their voices, studio-perfect, echoing in the artificial cold of the practice room. The music is so much louder than Junhee's breathing, but somehow that's all he can hear. Or is it Sehyoon's? The air is damp between them.

"Again," Sehyoon gasps, but his phone plugged into the boom box decides for them. The disembodied, distorted curl of his voice hits Junhee hard — he moves without thinking. In the mirror, sweat-heavy fabric sticks to skin before pulling apart, suspended for a heartbeat between two bodies. His numb limbs snap into position.

From a distance, he watches himself dance: the precise measure of it, the invisible visual of his center of gravity, swinging like a pendulum as he hits every beat. Sehyoon's a step behind, blurred with motion.

Junhee's whole being is located behind his ribs, where he's been finding his breath since sixteen. He's too well-trained to take a fall, even though he's itching and desperate for it, to push himself back into his skin and pull Sehyoon with him. It would be dishonest. Sehyoon knows this — that's why he's lagging, hitting the blocking without the detail, affording himself extra air. Junhee's too tired to fight back.

They touch hands above Junhee's neck, and a feverish heat flashes across his throat, his forearms and wrists, his calves down to his toes. The grand expanse of the mirror makes them look closer than they are. For a moment Junhee thinks they'll both lose their balance, but the song plays on. Their shoulders hit. The slick back of Sehyoon's neck fits against the side of his own for torturous seconds.

It didn't start like this, of course. At first it was funny. Then, at some point between their third and fourth wind, once the smell of the barbecue had faded into the plastic liner of the trash can and the automatic lock to the bathroom clicked on, it wasn't anymore.

It's well past midnight now. Junhee has touched Sehyoon in so many ways — through fabric and underneath it, with gentle hands and with nails, on the stomach and the chest and the neck. He's curled fingers in his hair, in his shirt, in the elastic waistband of his pants; he's pulled him off-balance and fallen himself. That's what this routine is for, now, far past the excuse of practice. Sehyoon has said _Again_ so many times.

Junhee meets his own eyes in the mirror. Sweat is sticking his bangs to his forehead. There are dark patches from his armpits down to the hem of his shirt. The frantic energy in his own expression scares his heartbeat into overdrive. He pulls to the side and almost overbalances, reeling himself back at the last second, praying that Sehyoon didn't see him slip. So much for his control.

Sehyoon keeps dancing. In Junhee's peripheral he looks like he's moving through molasses, though he can't be more than a second behind. Junhee feels like he's buzzing in comparison. Has the beat always been this slow? Has it always taken an age for the chorus to roll past? They're supposed to be in sync but they're not.

All Junhee can hear is the steady chant of Sehyoon's verse through the speakers. He waits for his own to echo it but it never comes. The song could stop entirely and he wouldn't know: Sehyoon's voice would still be ringing.

In the mirror, he sees Sehyoon step forward and hold up his arms. That's his cue.

His reflection converges on Sehyoon's. He loses time.

The mirror is fogging with breath—

No—his open mouth is against Sehyoon's nape, lips sliding against skin, and Sehyoon is gasping. They're in the middle of the room. Junhee feels like the walls are converging on them, trapping his hands against Sehyoon's waist. His whole body is heaving with breath. Or is that Sehyoon's?

The walls are where they should be. Junhee tears himself away, black spots swirling across his vision. He licks Sehyoon's sweat off his chin.

Sehyoon throws himself back into the dance. Junhee follows.

The practice room swims, flat planes of the walls losing shape. Junhee can still feel Sehyoon's body, the bones of his hips and the lazy definition of his stomach, his fingers holding Junhee's wrists in place, his weight as he leans against his chest and the front of his thighs. But they're not touching anymore — they're matching each other as the song winds down, two symmetrical figures hitting just off-beat. Junhee realizes it's him that's slowing.

If they keep this up they're going to get hurt. It's so late; they're so tired; Sehyoon wants to be touched so badly.

When the last notes play Junhee steps into Sehyoon's space and fists his hands in his shirt, pulling him in with enough force that he hears a sharp tearing noise from the collar.

They stare at each other. Sehyoon's eyes are dark. The front of his chest is exposed, pink and shining with sweat, and he's panting. As the last notes play Junhee fights a well-choreographed gut instinct to go to his knees.

And then silence.  
  
Sehyoon breathes in—

"No," Junhee says.

"Again."

"No," Junhee says, stronger, tugging, and Sehyoon gives, their foreheads knocking together just as the song starts again, and then he's twisting, trying to get away, and Junhee is yanking him back into his arms. Sehyoon's back hits his chest, hard.

Sehyoon's chest expands in Junhee's grip as he gasps. So much of their bodies are touching. Junhee closes his eyes. Stars blink behind his eyelids as his numb fingers regain feeling against the muscle and heat of Sehyoon's stomach. His legs are shaking but Sehyoon is taking his weight.

He drags two fingers past Sehyoon's navel, just far enough to bump the waistband of his pants, touching the first dip of the indent the elastic left on his skin. Sehyoon inhales sharply. He reaches behind himself and pulls at the hem of Junhee's shirt.

The blackness of Junhee's vision sways. He opens his eyes.

The mirror is fogging with breath —

No. They're in the middle of the room, twisted into one figure. Junhee stares at himself, his hands that he can feel and can't feel, the places where they're touching Sehyoon's bare skin. His whole stomach is exposed, from his ribs to where Junhee is pushing down his sweats.

The song soldiers on in the background.

Sehyoon meets Junhee's eyes in the mirror. Junhee knows what he's going to say before he says it.

"Again," Sehyoon says.

Junhee moves before he can think better of it, moves before he can think at all. He pulls his hand away and holds Sehyoon by the hip and shoves him forward, across the last few paces of his patience. The mirror looms. Junhee sees a glimpse of his own contorted face as Sehyoon catches himself against it, and then their reflections blur into the darkness at the edge of his vision as he presses himself against Sehyoon's back and pushes his fingers past the waistband of his sweats.

" _Jun_ ," Sehyoon gasps.

His skin is humid and hot. He twitches away from the touch for a moment before groaning, rolling his hips forward, and Junhee mirrors it. The wall is taking Sehyoon's weight — Junhee feels light on his feet, almost dizzy, as he opens his mouth against his neck.

The waistband of Sehyoon's pants presses insistently against his wrist. He twists his forearm until it slips off, grabs inelegantly at Sehyoon's waist until he can yank it down at the side.

Sehyoon makes a broken, wanting sound. Junhee wraps his hand around his cock.

If the song's still on Junhee can't hear it. His pulse is pounding at every soft place in his body, behind his eyes and his eardrums and his elbows, in his gut beneath the ache of his cock and against the tension of his toes curled in his tennis shoes. He can feel it in his fingers, where they're pulling sweat out of Sehyoon's heated skin, and in his watering mouth by his tongue. His heart is pounding an insistent rhythm in the lack of space between their bodies. Or is that Sehyoon's?

"Again," Sehyoon begs, "Again, again—" and Junhee breathes "Yes, yes—"

The mirror is fogging with breath, Sehyoon holding himself only an inch away. Junhee is panting as he touches him, his tongue against the sweat-slick skin of Sehyoon's nape. Exhaustion is blurring his vision; want is pulling every muscle in his body taut. Sehyoon feels like coiled rope against him, twisting inward and then arching back, almost frantic. Junhee can't hold him still.

There's a loud, sudden noise — wet skin against glass — and Sehyoon cries out as he loses his grip, taking his weight against the mirror with his cheek and shoulder. Junhee gasps as he loses his own balance, barely staying on his feet. He tries to haul Sehyoon upright by the waist but Sehyoon wrenches himself away, presses his face back into the mirror and curls his shoulders forward.

"C'mon," Junhee breathes, feeling the spell begin to break, an unwelcome consciousness creeping back into his skull. "Come on, hyung, we should move—"

"No—I'm—" Sehyoon says, his voice stressed. " _Junhee_ —"

Junhee presses his mouth to the exposed tag of Sehyoon's shirt, lines their shoulders level and steps forward until the wall stops them both. He feels Sehyoon hiss and exhale, trapped by Junhee's chest. Sehyoon's hands drop to his sides.

"Sehyoon-ah," Junhee murmurs. For better or worse he's coming back to himself, jolted by Sehyoon's brief noise of pain and the knowledge that he's what's holding them up. The fabric crushed between them is drenched with sweat. He can feel his hands again.

Sehyoon readjusts himself. He twists with what little space Junhee has given him until his nose is sideways against the glass, breath making small clouds of condensation. "Jun," he says, after a moment, in an entirely different tone.

"Couch," Junhee says. "Come on."

Sehyoon nods jerkily. Junhee puts a protective hand on his back when he straightens. The room tilts precariously as they turn to face it, then settles.

The couch is littered with the last of their things, Junhee's open backpack and Sehyoon's raincoat, the plastic bag from the takeout tangled up with Yuchan's forgotten hoodie and slumped halfway onto the floor. Sehyoon shoves everything to the side and kneels down heavily, the cushion sinking under his weight as he waits for Junhee to press lightly on his shoulders and then goes down on his stomach.

Junhee crawls onto Sehyoon's back. He feels his breathing against his inner thighs, the labored movement of his chest and stomach. With one finger, he tugs up the back of Sehyoon's shirt, tracing up his spine.

Sehyoon shivers. Junhee spreads his palm against his back, catching the hem of his shirt with his wrist and dragging it up, all the way to his neck, until it bunches under his arms. He wraps his hand around Sehyoon's nape and presses lightly.

Leaning forward, rocking his hips against the bare skin of Sehyoon's back, Junhee murmurs, "Are you good?"

The only warning Junhee gets is Sehyoon laughing on an exhale before he bucks upward, only using a fraction of his strength, and Junhee drives him back down into the couch.

"I'm good," Junhee hears Sehyoon say, almost muffled by his mouth against fabric. "I'm good, I'm really good—" He twists and it hits Junhee in soft places, the sensitive skin underneath his legs, his aching balls and his dick that he hasn't touched. He hisses and ruts down, and Sehyoon arches, his shoulders curling in.

"Fuck," Junhee breathes, going tense at the sudden friction and steadying himself against the back of the couch. He can feel a twinge of pain in his upper thighs as he locks them but it feels too good, Sehyoon making himself accessible while Junhee spreads his legs, trying to get closer. His vision blurs. Sehyoon's shirt, caught around his wrist, slips into vague shapes of color against skin under fluorescent light.

For a moment it's all he can do to stay upright. He's putting weight on Sehyoon's neck and Sehyoon is making low noises from the back of his throat, fingers curled into fists by his shoulders. When he rocks down Sehyoon arches up; they find a rhythm, soft and dirty, that makes Junhee's toes curl. His thoughts spin out like fraying thread. Sehyoon would let him come like this, grinding down against his spine.

But suddenly Sehyoon groans, dark and heavy, and Junhee remembers feeling him, the good hard heat in his hand, and drags the last of his energy out of his core. He lets go of Sehyoon and sits up on his knees, gritting his teeth at the absence of contact. Sehyoon whines and reaches back towards him, but Junhee catches his wrist, pressing it gently back into the couch. Sehyoon stills, perfect and obedient; Junhee sways a bit on his knees and backs up, straddling Sehyoon's ass and then the back of his thighs, where sweat-damp fabric has caught between his legs. Skin flashes from his hip — he didn't pull his pants all the way up.

Junhee braces himself on the back of the couch and taps his hipbone. "Knee," he says. "Up." Sehyoon follows immediately, twisting to the side enough to lift his hip, let Junhee get a hand underneath his body and inside his sweats.

Sehyoon breathes out as soon as Junhee touches him. Junhee crowds down over him, fitting his chest to Sehyoon's shoulders, letting his trapped erection rub against his ass. He wraps his fingers around Sehyoon's cock and strokes him once, feeling him shiver.

"Want it," Sehyoon mumbles, rocking his hips back, "I want it—"

"Anything," Junhee breathes out. He lifts up just enough to tangle his free hand in Sehyoon's hair and pull in no particular direction before pressing his mouth to his neck, opening his lips against Sehyoon's sweaty skin and rocking forward, urging Sehyoon's hips into his grip. The layers between them aren't enough to hide the fact that it feels like they're fucking.

Junhee rests his cheek against Sehyoon's shoulder and looks into the mirror across the room, their moving shapes, the skin of Sehyoon's torso and the dark head of his cock, peeking out from behind his knee. He rocks his hips forward and watches Sehyoon fold with it, his back bending, fists clenched and holding onto nothing.

The lights are too bright. The room is too messy and familiar to make sense with the softcore porn they're playing out, the way Junhee feels seconds away from losing his grip. He's breathing heavy, his movement against the back of Sehyoon's thighs becoming more desperate. He feels wetness at the tip of Sehyoon's cock and catches it before it can drip, pulling it back against his skin. It's not enough lubrication but Sehyoon doesn't seem to mind. His breath is getting heavy, too.

"Look," Junhee gets out, fisting his hand in Sehyoon's hair until he twists his neck and faces the mirror. Sehyoon nods frantically, his cheek pressed into the couch.

"Good, we look good, we look good—" Sehyoon says, fucking into Junhee's hand. It's all Junhee can do to cage him in. "You feel—you feel—I like it—"

"Yeah?" Junhee gasps, on the edge, and feels Sehyoon nod and shake and come, his whole body bucking, a harsh, thick noise escaping from his throat. Junhee closes his eyes as Sehyoon rides it out into the palm of his hand. Junhee's cock twitches pathetically. Come catches between his knuckles.

Sehyoon pants underneath him. Their communal couch is disgusting, sticky and wet with sweat and come. Junhee's mind goes quiet as Sehyoon collapses onto his stomach, inch by inch, slow. He feels himself slump onto him. As if from a distance, he notes his own arousal, the still-welcome warmth of Sehyoon's body between his legs. He could get himself off if he had the strength. He doesn't quite think he does.

The darkness is comforting. He presses his forehead to what must be Sehyoon's shoulderblades and feels the relief seep out.

"Junie," Sehyoon murmurs, quiet.

Junhee can't even make himself nod. He drops his jaw and feels for Sehyoon's shirt, finding the collar with his bottom lip and taking it into his mouth. It tastes like laundry detergent and body odor, but it helps. Something touches his knee: Sehyoon's hand.

"Junhee," Sehyoon whispers, gentle. "Jun-ah, can you sit up?"

Junhee whimpers, nonverbal. He lets Sehyoon's shirt slip out of his mouth, opening his eyes just enough to see blurry, bright shapes and lifting himself onto his knees. Sehyoon rolls onto his back; when he starts to sit up Junhee closes his eyes again.

Sehyoon touches his face, a thumb against his cheek. "Are you good?"

Junhee turns into the touch. He nods. Sehyoon rubs slow circles into his skin.

"Can I make you come?" Sehyoon asks quietly.

Junhee hums. Sehyoon shakes him lightly, and he makes himself say, "Please. Yes. Please."

"Okay," Sehyoon murmurs. Junhee can hear the smile in his voice and revels in it, knowing that Sehyoon is so close and so content even if he can't see it, even if it's all he can do to hold himself upright and wait to be touched. Sehyoon doesn't tease. He slips his hand between Junhee's legs and hums as he shivers, rocking down into his palm.

The song is still playing, Junhee notes. Outside of himself — outside of where he is now, kneeling at the confluence of Sehyoon's hands and getting his sweatpants damp — the cruel fluorescents are still on, the vents pushing air meant for the heat of the day in to touch their overwarm skin. Junhee's civilian clothes are folded neatly in his backpack, waiting for him to stop sweating and change back before heading home for the day.

So how did they get here? Sehyoon's hands are the only real thing in the world. Even his knees on the couch feel untrustworthy, scuttling with sleepy pinpricks and so far away from the good grounding pressure of Sehyoon's palm against his dick, his thumb tracing faint tear tracks across his cheekbone. When did he cry? He's so tired. Sehyoon is treating him so gently, touching him well and holding him forward for appraisal.

"Is this enough?" Sehyoon murmurs, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the damp patch on the front of Junhee's sweats. "What do you want? Can you say it?"

He wants to cry, he wants to come, he wants to fall asleep. He shakes his head and turns it, missing at first, until Sehyoon takes pity on him and slips his thumb into his mouth.

Junhee bites down gently. He tastes skin and sex, dirt and sweat and their long day, handprints on the mirror and hands on Junhee's body, over and over again. Not a sweet taste, but a good one, rooted in Sehyoon.

Sehyoon presses against the inside of his cheek to tilt his head. Junhee lets his neck loll. He feels warm, wet lips against his throat and shudders, trying to grind into Sehyoon's grip without leverage or energy, wanting touch. He realizes his hands are loose at his sides and whimpers, ringing his fingers around his wrist behind his back.

"Jun-ah," Sehyoon croons quietly, speaking against Junhee's skin. "Junhee. You're shaking." He is, thighs trembling as he holds himself up, his balance precarious. His lips are pulled open by Sehyoon's thumb. He tongues at it, placed against the inside of his teeth, and Sehyoon hums.

The hand between his legs disappears. Junhee hears himself make a noise and squeezes his eyes shut tighter as he tries not to drop down, stays kneeling and still and good as Sehyoon pulls down his sweats with his free hand, one side at a time, exposing Junhee's hips and his ass and then his cock, finally, aching a little against the air. The waistband of his pants gathers around his thighs; he wants to pull them down or push his legs together but he's still supposed to be holding himself up.

"Let me move you," Sehyoon murmurs, pulling his thumb out of Junhee's mouth. He's holding Junhee by the hip but not touching him yet. Sounds are spilling out of his mouth, thin and desperate; he thinks he might be begging.

Sehyoon pulls him until his shoulder hits the back of the couch and he can slump down, resting his forehead against it and letting Sehyoon shift around. He lays heavy against the couch cushions and Sehyoon's shoulder as his legs are pulled together, as he's pulled prone into Sehyoon's lap.

His head is lifted gently, Sehyoon's still-wet thumb pressing back between his parted lips. He sucks on it and Sehyoon laughs sweetly, wrapping a hand around his cock.

The ache in his legs is gone. Tomorrow he'll be sore all over, but now — now the world has narrowed to a single point, Sehyoon's firm grip against Junhee's hot skin, the swell of tension in his core and all of his blood rushing downwards. Sehyoon knows what he's doing; he doesn't give Junhee space to catch his breath.

Junhee curls into Sehyoon's chest and shakes. His head is being held up; his hips are rocking weakly; there's a mouth against his neck, biting and whispering indistinct words.

It should scare him, how easy it was to give himself over, but it doesn't. He feels safe, hot to the touch and held closely, soft and exhausted and grateful that Sehyoon let him hold him down, trusting Sehyoon's hands to hold him up.

Sehyoon touches the head of Junhee's cock, sensitive and dampened from precome, and pulls back when Junhee starts whining, tilting his head down and pressing lips to his cheekbone.

"You're so good to me," he murmurs, his smile bumping Junhee's nose.

Junhee tries to nod. He pants around Sehyoon's thumb. Sehyoon kisses his eyebrow.

"I want to see you come," Sehyoon says.

The song is still playing. The lights are still on. Junhee is centered, touched well and trusted, warm all over and whispering his gratitude. Or is that Sehyoon?

He keens and gags gently, presses his knees together and pushes into Sehyoon's grip and comes.

Fingers card through his hair. The world goes black and quiet.

  
Junhee blinks, five minutes or five hours later, and scrambles out of Sehyoon's lap so quickly that he almost falls. The overhead lights are blinding; it takes a moment for his vision to focus. Sehyoon stares up at him, his movement slow.

"Fuck," Junhee breathes. "Fuck. We can't sleep here. Fuck."

Sehyoon squints at him. He exhales, then leans back into the back of the couch, wrapping his arms around himself like he's going to go back to sleep.

"Come on," Junhee says. Sehyoon must have pulled his pants back up but they're still damp and uncomfortable, clinging at the groin. He feels itchy, exposed by the fluorescents and by Sehyoon curling back into the couch. "Come on, hyung. We have to get cleaned up."

"Jun-ah," Sehyoon mumbles, but he sits up reluctantly, blinking like a lazy cat. Junhee stares, fascinated, at the almost-faded imprint of the couch fabric on his cheek. Sehyoon catches him before he can look away.

Junhee goes red. Sehyoon smiles and Junhee feels it in his chest.

"I have—" Junhee starts. He stumbles over to his backpack and kneels down, too hard, on the floor to dig through it. There's a pack of makeup wipes somewhere — he spills chapstick and coins on the floor trying to find it.

It's tucked in the side pocket with a mask and his hat. He pulls it out and looks over at Sehyoon, who hasn't moved.

Junhee's throat is dry. He's not sweating anymore. He's almost cold.

"How bad is the couch?" he says, after a moment.

Sehyoon hums. He slowly uncurls his limbs and stands, pulling at the back of his sweats. He looks down at the cushions.

"It's pretty gross," he says.

The makeup wipes don't do much beyond smear the fabric. Sehyoon had been sitting in it. He must have wiped Junhee's somewhere else.

"This is so nasty," Junhee mumbles, staring at the slick residue of moisturizing lotion covering up the slick residue of come. Sehyoon snorts. Junhee crumples the makeup wipe in his hand and looks up, to Sehyoon's mussed clothes and the mirror doubling the space between them.

Something's missing, something other than Junhee's pride and Sehyoon's shame. It takes a moment.

"Did you turn off the music?" Junhee asks.

Sehyoon's eyebrows crease. He turns, a bit unsteady on his feet, and crosses to the boom box. He kneels and follows the aux.

After a second, he says, "My phone died."

Junhee can't help it. He's tired and embarrassed and loose from sex, tense from anxiety, warm from Sehyoon's hands and cold from the wide open room. He starts to laugh.

It echoes. Sehyoon laughs too, crouched in the corner, and they smile at each other. Junhee breathes a bit deeper as he stands and comes back.

"Let's go clean up," Sehyoon says. "Come on." Junhee follows him.

  
The hallway lights flicker up as they leave the practice room, and although the fluorescents were brighter, both of them wince a bit. Sehyoon hesitates at the empty corridor and Junhee nudges him to the left, where they pass a dark room identical to the one they just defiled before reaching the bathroom. Sehyoon tries the code on the handle and laughs out of the corner of his mouth when it beeps, stepping aside to let Junhee do it.

He types it in from muscle memory and pushes the door open. Another light clicks on inside, this one softer.

It's a single, wide enough to be accessible, with a small counter and a mirror. Junhee steps forward and appears in it, Sehyoon at his back. He stares at himself, and then flinches when fingers touch his back.

"I'm going to clean up," Sehyoon says, mouth twisted to the side. "Don't look."

"Too late," Junhee murmurs, but catches Sehyoon's eyes in the mirror and smirks at his pink cheeks. He turns on the faucet, drowning out the sound of Sehyoon pulling toilet paper off the roll, and looks at himself — his red face, his sweaty hair, his swollen mouth. He looks tired and well-fucked.

He looks behind him at Sehyoon, facing the other way, who has come on his ass.

Junhee starts to smile. He splashes water on his face, then wets a paper towel and turns around.

"Hyung, you've got—" he says. Sehyoon hums and straightens, tossing crumpled tissue into the open toilet bowl. The elastic waistband of his pants snaps back against his stomach. Junhee touches his hip. "Stand still." He tries to wipe off what's left of a crusting come stain and mostly succeeds in rubbing water on Sehyoon's ass.

Sehyoon giggles. Junhee flicks his hip.

"I'm trying to be _helpful_ ," he says, but he gets it. It's funny again, now that their breathing has stabilized and their bodies have separated, now that they're safe and together without being desperate for it. The lights in here are dimmer; the room is smaller; their need doesn't dwarf them like it did, in there, with their voices echoing.

Sehyoon turns around. Junhee feels himself blinking slow, letting exhaustion catch up. He tosses the paper towel away and tilts his chin.

"Sorry for getting you gross," Junhee says, and Sehyoon mimics the cock of his head like a curious bird, sleep softening his face. The skin of his cheek is faultless — no trace of the lines Junhee left anymore.

"Jun," Sehyoon says. "Are you good?"

"I'm good," Junhee says without thinking, and then thinks about it. He feels tired and slow and delicate, tender and conscious, like his body has been well-used. That's good; that makes him feel good. "I'm good," he says again. "Are you good?"

Sehyoon smiles, wide and honest, with his white teeth. "I feel really good," he says. He touches Junhee's waist and laughs sheepishly. "I liked that a lot."

Junhee giggles. He sways, a bit, and Sehyoon steadies him. "I did too."

"Good," Sehyoon murmurs, the word cut in half as Junhee kisses him.

It's lopsided, sweet and shallow and skin-tasting, a gentle press of lips against lips. The edges of their bodies blur together. Junhee is smiling. Or is that Sehyoon?

When they break apart they rest their foreheads together, noses brushing. Sehyoon makes a soft noise. Junhee breathes him in.

"Okay," Sehyoon whispers, after a moment.

Junhee hums, eyes half-lidded, blinking slow.

"I really need a shower," Sehyoon says.

"Hyung?" Junhee says.

"Hm?"

"Let's go home."

It makes sense now. The world has reoriented itself, blurred lines settling back into tangible parallel. Junhee can see his reflection in Sehyoon, sore and weary and satisfied as they gather their things and tiptoe out through the hallways, trailed by the low hum of the building and their soft footsteps, Sehyoon smiling at nothing and Junhee locking the studio door and both of them stepping out into the midnight air, dark and quiet, as behind them all the lights click off.

**Author's Note:**

> park junhee owes me money  
> [twit](https://twitter.com/_madanach)/[cc](https://curiouscat.me/madanach)


End file.
